


Who I am Without You

by keep_me_alone



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Also its one am lmao rip, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Bat Family, Bruce is trying, Child Abuse, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt, Family Dynamics, Hurt No Comfort, Kind of but lmao yeah, Ps. I wrote this on my phone so excuse the formatting as usual, This is a little self indulgent and i dont care, This is not the happiest time line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 10:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11918847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_me_alone/pseuds/keep_me_alone
Summary: Tim isn't doing well, so Bruce checks in on him. It goes badly for both of them.





	Who I am Without You

Bruce knocked on the door to Tim's bathroom. He could hear the hiss of the shower. He cracked the door slightly and a cloud of steam billowed out.  
"Time's up. Get out." He called in. Tim didn't respond, but Bruce hadn't really expected him to. He took the seat next to Tim's bed, where he had tea set out. Courtesy of Alfred, of course. A moment later the water shut off, and a moment after that, Tim stepped out of his bathroom. Steam chased him out. He stiffened as he noticed Bruce was still present. "How about a shirt?" Bruce suggested. Tim gave him a cagey look.  
"I didn't know you stayed. Did I forget to file something?"  
"No, I just wanted to talk," Bruce replied evenly, pouring the tea.  
"Why?" Tim asked, pulling on a grey T shirt.  
"According to Alfred, you were in the shower for over an hour."  
"Are we worrying about hydro costs now?" Bruce hummed.  
"You're sounding more like Jason than yourself there, chum." Tim sat on his bed, curling his legs into his chest.  
"Sorry," he mumbled, "I'm just tired."  Bruce studied him, noting the puffy, red eyes, the slump of his shoulders.  
"You've been crying." He stated. Tim shrugged tightly. Bruce poured tea into the second cup.  
"I'm tired," he repeated stubbornly.  
"Tell me," Bruce ordered, and realising how he'd sounded, softened his tone, "You can tell me."  
"Is this drugged?" Tim asked, taking the tea instead of answering.  
"Sort of," he glanced up. "Valerian root, passionflower and lemon balm. Alfred thought it might help. With the anxiety." Tim sipped it and made a face. It wasn't the first time he'd had this particular tea, and he'd never been fond of it. "Is that what this is?" Bruce asked. Tim nodded. His eyes burned.  
"I'm sick," Tim mumbled. Bruce drank his tea, waiting. "Just a little sicker than usual." Tim rubbed his face, tried to smother his sniff with his hand.  
"Tim-,"  
"Don't. Just let me- just give me a minute." He drew a deep trembling breath. He wouldn't look anywhere near Bruce's face. "I just- I shake all the time," his voice was choked, "I don't sleep, or I sleep all day. I have nightmares. I can't concentrate and I have so much to do and it's never going to end because there will always be more work. More criminals." He was crying into his hand, a pointless attempt to conceal the painfully obvious. "I'm just tired." His next breath was a heavy, gasping sob.  
"Drink your tea," Bruce told him, not sure what else to say. Tim composed himself enough to swallow a few mouthfuls.  
"And half the time," he whispered, "I want you to see and fix it and I'd do anything _to_ myself so that you'd just _see_ ," his voice cracked, "but when you do, I can't say anything because it's pathetic and sad and stupid. And I know that. I know that." He laughed, a startling, dark sound. "We're all just soldiers in your war Bruce. I know that too, and you don't need any of this. Fuck." He finally looked up, and Bruce couldn't quite read his expression. It was immeasurable weariness, a grim kind of humour, desperation. He didn't understand.  
"I'm here now," Bruce pointed out, "and you're talking." Tim laughed again.  
"I'm not convinced this isn't a dream." Tim replied bluntly. He tossed back the rest of his tea, set it on the table, and flopped back onto his bed. Bruce stood and found a box of Kleenex, which he placed next to Tim as he sat on the bed beside him. Tim didn't move, just stared at the ceiling.  
"What do you need?" Bruce asked. He was unsettled to see that tears were running down the sides of Tim's face.  
"I don't know. You're my dad now, right? Why don't you tell me?" It was supposed to be funny. He wasn't sure it came out that way.  
"I think," Bruce said slowly, lying down so that he was looking up too, "that you need some time off."  
"I can't," Tim told him hollowly,  "I told you."  
"As your father," his tone was wry, "I'm not putting you in the field when you're this compromised. It's not safe for you or anyone else." Tim exhaled loudly, not quite a sigh.  
"I'm pretty sure, 'as my father', you're not supposed to put me in danger in the first place. There are definitely laws about that."  
"Hn. Is that what this is about?" Bruce kept his gaze trained upwards. Tim focused on the rise and fall of his chest as he kept his breathing even.  
"I knew what I signed up for." He replied.  
"I don't know if this is good for you, anymore." Bruce said carefully.  
"Was it ever, Bruce?" His voice pitched higher.  
"It was your choice then and it's your choice now." Neither of them had looked at each other.  
"I was a kid. I _am_  a kid. I don't always know what's best for me," Tim noticed in a detached way, that he was getting kind of angry, "Maybe I just needed someone to look out for me. When I couldn't." It had cost him a lot to say. Bruce sat up and turned to him. Tim rolled onto his side and curled into a ball.  
"Alright. You're done." His tone was more accommodating than harsh. Tim yanked a pillow over his face to muffle his frustrated yell.  
"That's not what I want." He shouted, without uncovering his face.  
"What _do_  you want?" Bruce asked, nonplussed.  
"I don't know." Tim yelled. "Figure it out!" Bruce touched Tim's shoulder, only to have the boy smack his hand away.  
"Tim-,"  
"Get out," and it seemed he'd spent all his energy because Bruce almost hadn't caught that. "Just leave me alone." Bruce went to the door and paused, looking at the thin boy buried in the bed. He was at a loss. He might've been a detective, the world's greatest, even, but he didn't know how to understand Tim, when the teenager didn't understand himself.  
"Drink your tea," Bruce told him, "Rest." And then he left. It wasn't the right thing to do, but he didn't know what else there was.


End file.
